


el mundo es mi familia

by orphan_account



Series: la misma canción, una ruta diferente [2]
Category: Coco (2017)
Genre: -but then this fic exists now., Abandoned Work - Unfinished and Discontinued, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Character Death, Day of the Dead, F/M, Family Reunions, Other, POV First Person, POV Third Person, also i think it's funny how in the last fic i was like 'hector wont die from poisoning'-, because it's the sequel to 'toma mi mano' lol, ok so only two OCs will get the same focus as the canon characters but i promise its for reasons, some family drama but that's expected in any coco fic i think, some references to the book of life here and there, somehow i feel like i'll regret writing this story later on but screw it we need more coco fics, the summary is trash because im still an amateur
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-15
Updated: 2018-01-20
Packaged: 2019-02-14 15:11:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 7
Words: 9,776
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13010433
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: The ban on music still happens, things are still said and done, but in the end – when both living and dead relatives come together, it's clear what is of more value.





	1. Chapter 1

Sometimes, I think my family is doomed to encounter at least some type of bad luck, one way or another. Maybe we’re cursed. …okay, maybe that’s a little vague. I should explain why I think we’re all cursed.

 

Something happened a long time ago, before I was even born. See, a long time ago, my great-great grandfather, Papá Héctor, went on a temporary leave with a friend – I think he was called ‘Ernesto de la Cruz.’

 

Apparently, Ernesto took advantage of Papá Héctor and tried blackmailing him into staying with him so he could continue to make profit off of his songwriting. If Mamá Imelda hadn’t figured out what was going on, then who knows what would’ve happened to Papá Héctor. Thankfully, she sent her daughter, Mamá Coco, to get some policemen while she ‘took out the trash.’

 

After that incident, Papá Héctor kind of developed a grudge against musicians – he’d been used by one, so at the time, it made sense. He still played music, though – for his daughter. But when it came to business matters, he somehow gave into Mamá Imelda’s idea of starting a business centered around shoes. _Shoes_.

 

I honestly don’t know what they were thinking at the time.

 

And then here comes the part that only proves my point that this family is most likely cursed: when he was only thirty-two, Papá Héctor noticed an orphan was playing alone on the streets, and he then heard a wagon coming. So what did he do? He pushed the child out of the way, and before he could even move, it was too late.

 

Mamá Imelda and Mamá Coco were devastated when they received the news. Papá Héctor spent his last moments surrounded by his wife and daughter in a dimly-lit hospital room, before he left them and this world behind for good.

 

When the day of the funeral came, Tío Felipe and Óscar, Mamá Imelda’s younger twin brothers, helped lower Papá Héctor’s casket into the ground. 

 

Mamá Imelda spent her time mourning for a while, but soon, she decided that she wouldn’t spend the rest of her life moping around just because her husband was now dead. She had a thirteen year-old to take care of and a business to run – and so, she soon began to teach her daughter how to make shoes.

 

She could’ve taught her how to make candy, fireworks, or sparkly underwear that wrestlers wear – but no, she chose to teach her how to shine and make shoes. She also ended up roping her son-in-law and her grandchildren into the business. And then they taught their grandchildren, and the cycle continued.

 

And the worst part is, because Papá Héctor’s songs were the only music she and Mamá Coco would listen to, Mamá Imelda banned music entirely after his death because ‘no one could play music like he did.’

 

…yeah. We’re all cursed.

 

Anyway, Mamá Imelda died way before I was born, and one of the few things we have left from her is a photo of her and Papá Héctor taken from when they were twenty-four, which is on the ofrenda.

 

I wish I could say that her memory lives on her daughter, but Mamá Coco’s memory is slowly being destroyed thanks to Alzheimer’s disease. It’s worrying – just how much will she be able to remember when el Día de los Muertos arrives? If she can’t remember her own daughter’s name, will she be able to remember her parents?

 

And then there comes another downer – thanks to Papá Héctor, I might’ve developed a love for music. I just can’t help it – he inspired me, even if he wasn’t a musician.

 

I just wish that he was here, so I could get at least _someone’s_ blessing to play music. But he’s dead – so what chance do I have at getting his blessing?


	2. Chapter 2

While Miguel couldn’t openly express his thoughts about music around his family, that didn’t mean he couldn’t express his thoughts when he was elsewhere. Case in point: there was the plaza, where dozens of mariachis would gather to perform the most beautiful music – of course, their songs couldn’t top off Héctor’s, though; but they came in _very_ close.

 

So when he came to the plaza, Miguel noticed that a mariachi singer seemed to be in need of some shoe-shining, so he was more than happy to oblige – knowing that he could also start up a conversation easily, without any interruptions.

 

“It’s been centuries, and yet Abuelita Elena keeps insisting that we can’t give up the ban because ‘we can’t have anyone end up being manipulated by one of those terrible musicians like how Papá Héctor was’ and ‘his music was unlike any others, no strings on any guitar today could mimic the same tune he played long ago,’” Miguel rambled as he rubbed a cloth against the mariachi’s shoes. “I just don’t understand it… how can they condemn all musicians just because of the sins of merely one? And if they really think his songs are unique, why wouldn’t they let others play them in memory just because they aren’t played in the same tune?”

 

“…look, kid,” the mariachi began, “I’m not a therapist, but you know what I think you should do? You should play music, like how your great-great grandfather used to play a long time ago. You should march up to your family, and say ‘hey! I wanna be like my great-great grandpa and play some music!’”

 

“Oh no.” Miguel shook his head. “I couldn’t do that. My family would _freak_.”

 

“Do you want to spend the rest of your life shining shoes?”

 

“No.”

 

“Then take my advice – follow your heart, not what others tell you to do. Tonight, there’s going to be a music competition for Dia de los Muertos – it’s your chance to become a well-known guitarist, like Héctor Rivera.”

 

Miguel thought about it for a moment. “…you’re right.”

 

The mariachi then smiled. He held his guitar out to the boy. “Show me what you’ve got, muchacho.” As the boy grabbed the guitar, he continued, “I’ll be your first audience.”

 

Just as the child was about to strum the instrument’s strings, he heard a familiar voice shout his name: “MIGUEL!”

 

The twelve-year old gulped as he recognized who it was, while the mariachi began sweating as he saw an elderly woman march towards them, looking a little too angry. Behind the elderly woman was a middle-aged man in a red shirt, along with a fourteen year-old girl wearing glasses, with her hair tied into a ponytail.

 

“Abuelita,” he said nervously.

 

“What are you doing here?!” his grandmother demanded.

 

“Um…”

 

Before Miguel could say anything, Elena took off one of her shoes and hit the mariachi on the head with it. “You leave my grandson alone!”

 

“I was just getting a shine!” the mariachi insisted, only to have the shoe roughly pressed up against his nose.

 

“I know your tricks, mariachi!” Elena spat, glaring at him. She then looked at her grandson, concerned for the boy. “What did he say to you?”

 

“He was just showing me his guitar,” Miguel answered.

 

Elena, Berto and Rosa all gasped upon hearing this. “Shame on you!” Berto said angrily, pointing at the mariachi, while his daughter had a shocked expression on her face.

 

“My grandson is a dulce, precioso niño,” Elena said, looking at the boy while smiling. She then turned back to the mariachi, narrowing her eyes as she pushed him down. “He wants none of your music, mariachi! You keep away from him!”

 

The mariachi scrambled to his feet as he grabbed his guitar, quickly running away from the scorned woman.

 

Elena put her shoe back on. She then pulled Miguel into a tight hug, whispering reassuring words as she kissed his head. She then grabbed him by the arms and said, “You know better than to be here at this place!” As she began to walk away, she added, “You will come home. _Now_.”

 

Rosa paused for a moment as her father and grandmother began making their way home. She flashed a smile at Miguel before she followed them.

 

Miguel sighed as he grabbed his supplies. However, he stopped once he saw a poster advertising the competition that would take place tonight. He smiled and grabbed it before running after his uncle, cousin and grandmother.

 

“How many times must we tell you,” Berto began as Miguel caught up with them, “that plaza is crowded with mariachis!”

 

“Yes, Tío Berto,” Miguel said, before he saw a stray xolo run between his legs. “No, no, no – Dante, you can’t be here!” he whispered.

 

Dante was a stray Miguel had found a while ago. He remembered how the dog had been rummaging through trash cans, but when he laid eyes on the boy, he’d ran over to him and licked his face multiple times. Ever since that moment, they were the best of friends. Unfortunately, though, Miguel couldn’t adopt Dante, as his grandmother didn’t like dogs.

 

Case in point once more…

 

Elena took off her shoe once more as she threw it at Dante, causing the dog to whimper and run away. “Go away, you! Go!”

 

“It was just Dante!” Miguel protested.

 

“Never name a street dog!” Elena said, shaking her finger at him. Her arms then fell to her side. “They’ll follow you forever. Now, go get my shoe.”

 

* * *

 

When they arrived at the shop, Miguel was seated down almost immediately.

 

“I found your son in mariachi plaza!” Elena said accusingly.

 

Enrique let out a loud sigh as he stopped his work, turning to his son. “ _Miguel_ ,” he said, as if he were about to scold him.

 

“You know how Abuelita feels about the plaza,” Luisa said softly, while she placed a hand on her bump.

 

“I was just shining shoes,” the boy protested.

 

“A musician’s shoes!” Berto added.

 

Franco and Abel both gasped. The shoe Abel had been working on was flung up to the ceiling, creating a small dent.

 

“But the plaza’s where the foot traffic is!” Miguel tried defending himself.

 

“If Abuelita says no more plaza, then _no more plaza_ ,” Enrique said. “Besides, what would Papá Héctor think if he was here, and he knew that you were shining the shoes of one of the people who’d hurt him long ago?”

 

“He wouldn’t be so quick to generalize unlike you all,” Miguel muttered, crossing his arms as he turned away from his father.

 

“Miguel…”

 

“And what about tonight?” the boy asked.

 

“What’s tonight?” Franco, his grandfather, questioned.

 

“Well, they’re having this talent show,” Miguel began to explain as he fumbled with his hands, “a-and I thought I might—”

 

“Sign up?” Luisa raised an eyebrow.

 

“Well, maybe?”

 

Rosa giggled. “You need talent to enter a talent show, Miguel.”

 

“What are you gonna do?” Abel taunted his cousin. “Shine shoes?” Before he could laugh, the shoe that had slipped from his grasp fell from the ceiling onto his head. He let out a groan as he rubbed his head, looking up.

 

“It’s Dia de los Muertos,” Elena said firmly. “No one’s going anywhere.” She placed a bouquet of flowers into her grandson’s hands. “Tonight is about family. Ofrenda room, vamonos.”

 

* * *

 

Elena pushed Coco’s wheelchair into the ofrenda room. She then kissed her mother’s cheek. She noticed Miguel was giving her a pouty look. “Don’t look at me like that.” She then gestured to the ofrenda. “Dia de los Muertos is the only time of the year where our ancestors can come visit us! We put their photos on the ofrenda so that their spirits can cross over.” She pointed a finger at Miguel. “That is very important.”

 

Miguel looked at the pictures of his ancestors.

 

“We’ve put out all this food, set up all the things they’ve loved in life, mijo. All this work to bring the family together. I don’t want you sneaking off to who knows where—” Elena stopped as she noticed the spot where Miguel had been standing was now empty. She looked at the doorway, only to see that Miguel was beginning to sneak off. She gasped. “Where are you going?”

 

“I – I thought we were done,” Miguel said, shrugging nervously.

 

“Ay dios mio.” Elena rolled her eyes as she pulled Miguel back to the ofrenda. “Being part of this family means being here for this family. I don’t want you to walk away, even for just a long stroll, only to end up getting hit by a wagon, like—”

 

“—like Papá Héctor?” Miguel interrupted.

 

“Yes,” Elena said softly, looking at the picture of her late grandfather. “He was a good man. He loved music, but his family meant more to him, so he never became a musician.”

 

“…but didn’t he die saving that little orphan—”

 

“—we don’t speak of that child!” Elena interrupted him. “She was a reckless little girl, who should’ve known better than to play on the streets! If she had been careful, your great-great grandfather would’ve at least lived to see his great-grandchildren!”

 

“Papá?” the two heard Coco murmur. “Papá is okay?”

 

“No, Mamá,” Elena said as she walked over to her mother. “But it’s okay. I’m here.”

 

Coco smiled, before asking, “Who are you?”

 

Elena sighed. “Rest, Mamá,” she whispered. She then turned back to Miguel. “I’m hard on you because I care, Miguel.” Her eyes widened as she noticed the boy was gone. “Miguel? _Miguel?_ ”

 

She walked by the ofrenda, and glanced at the photo of her grandparents. “What are we going to do with that boy?”

 

Her eyes begin to brighten as an idea popped into her mind. “You’re right, Mamá Imelda. That’s just what he needs!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't really have much to say here, other than that I've decided that yeah, there's gonna be focus on like, two OCs but that's only for story purposes. Otherwise, you're gonna get a lot of family fluff. And some angst.
> 
> Also, yeah, it's kinda similar to the film but there _are_ noticeable differences. With some new additions, too.


	3. Chapter 3

Dante rested underneath a tree for a while, until he heard a slight ‘twang.’ He scrambled to the roof, lifting up a sign with his head. Behind the sign, he found a small room where Miguel was.

 

Miguel turned to see the dog poking his head in at the entrance. “Oh, Dante – get in here, hurry up!” He moved his hands to signal that it was urgent, to which the dog complied.

 

“If you make any noise, you’ll get me in trouble,” Miguel whispered. “Someone could hear us.”

 

Miguel held his makeshift guitar close, before pulling out a black marker. He drew a nose on the guitar, before looking at it more closely. “…if only people wanted to listen, other than you, of course,” he mumbled.

 

Dante licked his face, causing him to smile a little. He then plucked a string from the guitar – hearing the soft note that played made him grin. “Perfecto!”

 

Miguel slowly moved to the far side of the attic, where an old television set was. Next to it was a stack of old tapes, dating back to the 1800s. He picked up a tape and pushed it into the VCR. A recording of an interview began to play out.

 

_“So, Señor Rivera,” the interviewer began, “what do you plan on doing with your music career now that your talent has been recognized?”_

_Héctor laughed a little. “I’m sorry to say, but I’m no longer pursuing that lifestyle,” he answered. “The songs I wrote were never meant to be heard by the public, they were for my daughter. Now, I would rather stay home, with my family.”_

_“Are you sure about that?”_

_“Yes, I am sure.”_

_“I see… but, do you have anything to say about music itself?”_

_“Oh, of course!” Héctor turned to face the camera, smiling. “Music comes from within the heart. It is not an easy task to write lyrics, but you have to put your mind to it – think about what inspires you, and pour out your feelings into your writing. In the end, you’ll end up creating a fine melody that you can play to your heart’s content.”_

Miguel began to play his guitar as soon as the video clip ended. He knew where he got his love for music from – it was clear as day; it came from his great-great grandfather. And his grandfather’s words—“music comes from within the heart”—were inspiring.

 

He pulled out the tape, popping another one into the VCR before continuing the play the guitar.

 

_“At what age did you discover your love for music?” another interviewer questioned._

_“Since I was toddler, I believe,” Héctor replied. “Although they aren’t completely clear, I do have some vivid memories of my mother singing lullabies to me. The first time I heard a guitar play was when I was three – my mother took me out to a market, and not too far away, was this man, playing a guitar. It was at that moment that the instrument became my first love—I mean, I didn't love it the way I love my wife and daughter now, but. You get the picture.”_

_“When and how did you get your first guitar?”_

_“When I was eleven. I bought it after a long day at school – when I’d gotten home, I noticed that my mother had left a note for me on the table, aside some money. ‘You have talent, mi hijo. I hope that with this money, you’ll put your talent to good use.’ So I took the money, went to an instrument shop, and bought a guitar. At the time, it was a simple one – not the same as the one I use now, but I didn’t care at the time. All I thought about was how I finally had a guitar. I could finally play music.”_

 

Miguel stopped playing the makeshift guitar for a moment as he glanced at it. He then realized that he would need a real guitar for the talent show – not just a fake one he made using old wood, nails and other everyday supplies and tools. But in order to get a real one, he’d need his family’s blessing.

 

He paused the video, taking the tape out of the VCR. “You know what, Dante?” he asked quietly. “If Papá Héctor’s mother gave him a guitar after seeing his talent, maybe if I proved myself to my family… maybe they’d let me get a guitar, and sign up for the competition. Maybe then, I could play music freely.”

 

Dante simply titled his head, before he licked Miguel again.

 

The boy laughed softly, before petting the stray. “But first, I’m going to stop at the ofrenda and talk to Papá Héctor a bit.”

 

* * *

 

“Dia de los Muertos has begun!” Elena announced.

 

Two toddlers ran across the yard, scattering petals of marigold flowers all around.

 

“No, no, no, no, no,” Luisa said, shaking her head as she smiled at the toddlers. She made a path with her petals, from the ofrenda room to the front gate. “We have to make a clear path. The petals guide our ancestors home. We don’t want their spirits to get lost. We want them to come, and enjoy all of the food and drinks on the ofrenda, si?”

 

As his mother taught his younger cousins, Miguel and Dante snuck across the roof to the sidewalk outside of the compound. Miguel clutched his guitar tightly. He jumped back as he saw Berto and Enrique just around the corner carrying a table.

 

“Mamá, where should we put this table?” Enrique asked aloud.

 

Miguel and Dante backed up, only for Miguel to notice that Elena was right behind them. They both jumped into the back of the courtyard, just in time before she could notice them.

 

“In the courtyard, mijos,” Elena replied.

 

“You want it down by the kitchen?” Enrique questioned.

 

“Si.”

 

Miguel began to back out of the courtyard, into the family ofrenda room. He ushered Dante underneath the table, and kicked the guitar underneath as well. He couldn’t have anyone notice it – not now. “Now, stay quiet!” he whispered.

 

“Miguel!”

 

The boy straightened up as he saw his parents and grandmother walk into the room. They stared at him for a moment. Anxiety filled his thoughts. Had he been caught, right before he could even prove himself?

 

“Mamá, Papá, I—”

 

Enrique lifted a finger, silencing his son. “Miguel… your abuelita had the most wonderful idea! We’ve all decided — it’s time you joined us in the workshop!”

 

Miguel’s arms fell to his side as he saw his grandmother hand his father an apron, to which the man hung it over his shoulders. This couldn’t have been happening – it felt more like a nightmare than reality.

 

“Wh…what?”

 

“No more shining shoes,” Enrique said, smiling widely. “You’ll be making them, every day after school.”

 

Elena squealed before she squeezed her grandson’s cheeks, full of pride and joy.  “Our Migueli-ti-ti-ti-to carrying on the family tradition – and on Dia de los Muertos! Your ancestors will be so proud.” She then gestured to the shoes on the ofrenda. “You’ll craft huaraches just like your Tía Victoria.”

 

“And wingtips, like your Papá Julio—”

 

Miguel turned away from the ofrenda. “But what if I turn out to be terrible at the whole shoe-making business?”

 

“Ah, you have your family to guide you… remember, you are a Rivera. And a Rivera is…?”

 

“A shoemaker. Through and through.” Miguel silently added, _But Papá Héctor wasn’t_.

 

“That’s my boy!” Enrique beamed. He then called out, “Berto, break out the good stuff – I wanna make a toast!”

 

The man then life, with his wife following behind him. Before leaving, Elena smothered Miguel with a bunch of kisses.

 

Miguel turned back to the ofrenda, but then noticed Dante licking a plate of mole.

 

“Dante, no!” He quickly pulled the dog away from the ofrenda – however, the dog’s grip was a little too tight, as the table shook. The frame with his great-grandmother and her parents fell to the ground, with the sounds of shattering glass following afterward.

 

“No, no, no, no, no…” Miguel picked up the photo of Héctor and Imelda. “Oh no… I’m so sorry, Papá Héctor. Mamá Imelda…” He shook his head. “I just—I wanted to say something. Papá Héctor, I’m going to play music, just like you did a long time ago. Watching old videos with you, hearing your words—it inspired me to follow my dream. It made me think that if you easily proved yourself worthy of a genuine, real guitar to your mother, maybe I could do the same with my family. I mean – _our_ family.”

 

There was a few minutes of silence, before a small smile crossed Miguel’s face. He placed the photo in his pocket, and grabbed his guitar from underneath the table. But just as he got up, ready to leave, he heard Coco mumble something.

 

“Papá…?” the old woman murmured. “Papá! Papá!”

 

Miguel’s heart sunk a little, knowing how much his great-grandmother missed her father, just from hearing those three words.

 

He then knew that he couldn’t play music just for himself. He’d do it for Coco.

 

He’d do it for his great-great grandfather.

 

* * *

 

 

Miguel ran to the edge of the roof, looking over the courtyard. The photo was still snug in his pocket, while he held his guitar in his right hand.

 

“Papá, Papá!” he cried out. “I know what I want to be when I grow up!”

 

“Miguel, get down from there!” Luisa cried out, sounding worried.

 

The boy pulled off the apron, and struck a pose. “I’m gonna be a musician!”

 

Everyone else stared at him, shocked at what they’d just heard.

 

“Excuse me?!” Elena cried out, her eyes narrowing as she processed the words in her head.

 

Miguel’s eyes then widened, flinching at the tone of his grandmother’s voice. It was then that he realized that he was in big trouble.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter is where the big differences are more clear instead of just subtle stuff here and there. However, that aside, I did enjoy writing the beginning of this. It was interesting, to see how Hector would've reacted to interviews and all.


	4. Chapter 4

Miguel didn’t get to protest as his tapes along with his guitar were dumped at his feet. All he could do was take a few steps away as his family encircled him.

 

“What are these?” Elena asked, while the others gazed in shock at the tapes.

 

“Some old tapes of Papá Héctor…” Miguel fumbled with this thumbs nervously. “Mostly just interviews.”

 

“How did you find these, and where did you get them?” Enrique then asked.

 

“Sometimes, after school, I went to the market and that’s where I found these tapes,” Miguel explained. “The man who was selling them said they were free, so I grabbed as many as I could.”

 

“You keep things hidden from your own family?!” Elena cried out.

 

“Well, I kind of _have_ to since you all went along with Mamá Imelda’s stupid ban on music!” Miguel shot back. “If I hadn’t hidden these tapes, you would’ve taken them away, and I would’ve never been encouraged to play music like Papá Héct—”

 

“Papá Héctor is _dead_ , Miguel!” Enrique interrupted his son. “And I’m not going to let my son end up in his shoes, getting all battered up by a liar and then hit by a wagon years later. That is no future for you.”

 

“But Papá, you said my ancestors would guide me,” Miguel protested. “Héctor _is_ one of my ancestors.”

 

“I’ve heard enough!” Elena exclaimed.

 

“If you just let me prove myself—”

 

“Miguel—” Luisa started, but her words fell on deaf ears.

 

“Just let me—”

 

“ _Enough_ ,” Enrique cut the boy off.

 

Miguel lifted his guitar, ready to play – but before he could pluck a single string, Elena snatched the guitar away.

 

“We’ve been warning you this entire time that we don’t want you to end up battered and nearly broken like he was!” Elena pointed to her grandfather’s half of the photo. “If you go out in this business alone, you won’t be as lucky as he was!”

 

“I don’t care about the risks!” Miguel shouted.

 

Elena narrowed her eyes. She quickly lifted the guitar into the air, before smashing it on the ground.

 

Miguel’s eyes widened as he looked at the broken bits and pieces. “No…” he whispered, tears swelling up in his eyes.

 

Seeing how hurt her grandson was, Elena’s expression softened. “Come here,” she said slowly, reaching out to cup her grandson’s cheek, “you’ll feel better after you eat alongside your family.”

 

Miguel didn’t say a word. Instead, he quickly snatched the photo back and bolted out of the estate.

 

“Miguel!” Enrique shouted as his son ran off.

 

* * *

 

 

Instead of running straight to the mariachi plaza, Miguel had a different idea. He needed a guitar for the talent show, so what better way to get one than by visiting a relative? After all, it wouldn’t really be considered stealing if one borrowed a guitar from the dead, right?

 

It took a while to find the graveyard, but eventually, he stopped by the gates. For an adult, these gates would be hard to squeeze through, but for a twelve year-old boy, it was a piece of cake.

 

Thankfully, it seemed as though he was the only one there. At least, until he heard panting.

 

Miguel turned around and saw Dante right behind him. “Dante, you followed me?” he asked.

 

The dog barked in response, to which Miguel quickly hushed him. “Quiet! You’re going to get us caught if you continue to bark like that.”

 

Silently, the two passed by many graves. Graves of friends, relatives – but Miguel could not spot the grave of the man he was looking for.

 

Dante sniffed the ground, and began to bark loudly.

 

“Dante, no! Stop!” Miguel tried to quiet the dog, but the xolo wouldn’t stop.

 

With his teeth, Dante grabbed Miguel’s jeans and began to drag him as he ran off.

 

“Dante!” Miguel tried to keep still in his spot, but found himself being dragged to a grave.

 

Miguel’s shoulders fell as he noticed a guitar by the grave. Written on stone were the words: **Aquí yace Héctor Rivera**.

 

“Papá Héctor…” Miguel trailed off as he slowly kneeled in front of the grave. “I – I know you probably can’t hear me right now, but hi. It’s Miguel. I just want to let you know that—” he pulled out the photo from his pocket, glancing at it for a moment before he stuffed it back in “—you’re a big inspiration to me. Your words and your songs have influenced my views on music. Because of you, I want to partake in a music competition, but in order to do that, I need a guitar, so… please. I’ll have it just for this night, and then I’ll give it back. Just one night, and I’ll never have to borrow it again.”

 

There was no response. The only thing Miguel heard as he knelt in front of the grave were the sounds of fireworks.

 

The boy grabbed the guitar, and strummed it one time. The air around him vibrated, petals whirled around and surged with light – it made him wonder, _what just happened_?

 

Suddenly, he heard the sounds of footsteps. He quickly hid behind the grave, only for his hand to go through the stone. 

 

Miguel gasped as he looked at one of his hands. At the corner of his eye, he saw a flashlight shine nearby. He placed the guitar down as he looked ahead, seeing a middle-aged man take a few steps closer.

 

“Who’s there?” the man asked, looking around. “And what kind of fun do you get out of messing with dead people’s items like that, huh?!”

 

Miguel couldn’t believe it. Had playing the guitar cause him to somehow die a painless death? Or was this some type of magic? What was going on?

 

Whatever this type of magic was, it didn’t stop Dante from seeing him somehow, as the xolo began to rub his body up against the boy’s leg.

 

“How are you able to see me if he can’t?” Miguel asked, looking down at the stray.

 

The dog simply barked in response, before running off.  Miguel looked at the path he was going, noticing a bunch of…live skeletons. Moving around and talking to one another.

 

Confused as ever, Miguel continued to follow Dante until he bumped into something…or rather, _someone_.

 

“Oops.” He winced as he saw the skeleton’s bones scatter across the ground. Its head popped up as he continued, “I’m sorry.”

 

The skeleton’s bones quickly rearranged themselves back together as he cried out in surprise, “Miguel?!”

 

“Miguel?!” he heard two women cry out, also surprised.

 

“You’re here!” the short skeleton man said. “And you can see us?!”

 

A chubby skeleton woman dressed in pink charged past the man, grabbing Miguel almost immediately, hugging him tightly to the point where he felt like he was being crushed. “Our Migueli-ti-ti-ti-ti-to!”

 

“Do I…know you?” Miguel asked, in a muffled voice.

 

“We’re your family, mijo!” she replied.

 

Then, Miguel remembered the photos on the ofrenda. “Tía Rosita…?”

 

“Si!”

 

He then looked at the short man, as he soon came to another realization. “Papá Julio?”

 

“Hola.” His great-grandfather waved in response.

 

“Tía Victoria?” Miguel glanced at the taller skeleton woman.

 

She poked his cheek, looking skeptical. “He doesn’t seem dead… at least, not as dead as us.”

 

The same man who’d been searching through the graveyard with his flashlight passed by, still continuing his search for the person who’d broke in.

 

“But he isn’t really alive either,” Rosita added.

 

“Hmm…” Julio put his hand to his chin for a moment. “Perhaps Mamá Imelda and Papá Héctor might know how to fix this.”

 

Suddenly, twin skeleton men ran towards the family.

 

“Oye!” the first one huffed.

 

“It’s Mamá Imelda and—” the second one started.

 

“—Papá Héctor,” the first one continued. “They couldn’t make it across the bridge!”

 

Julio, Rosita and Victoria all gasped.

 

“They’re both stuck on the other side!” the twins exclaimed in unison.

 

“Tío Óscar? Tío Felipe?” Miguel asked.

 

“Oh, hey Miguel,” Óscar greeted the boy. Then, he and his brother gasped, shocked upon seeing the boy.

 

“I have a feeling this has something to do with you,” Victoria said as she sturned to Miguel.

 

“But if Mamá Imelda and Papá Héctor can’t come to us…” Rosita started.

 

“…then we are going to them! Vamonos!” Julio then grabbed Miguel’s arm and the family rushed through the cemetery, followed by Dante.

 

' _This is going to be a long night_ ,' Miguel thought as he was dragged alongside his dead relatives.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, Miguel knows where his grandfather is buried because...what kind of family just keeps information about the graveyard where a dead member is buried hidden from another family member?
> 
> Oh, and remember when I promise that like, some OCs would appear? Well, one's going to make a bit of a debut in the next chapter. I won't specify much, other than that they'll be a pivotal character.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally, we are close to a full circle.

“You’re joking, right?” Héctor asked, as he and his wife sat in front of the desk of a case worker. “Because this doesn’t add up. Our family would never leave our photos off of the ofrenda on purpose.”

 

“I’m sorry, señor,” the case worker apologized. “But you and your wife’s photo isn’t up there.”

 

“Can you check again?” Héctor pleaded as his wife let out a groan of frustration.

 

“I’ve checked more than once and your photo is still not on the ofrenda,” the case worker answered.

 

Imelda’s eyes narrowed as she shot up from her seat. “I demand to speak to the person who is in charge!” she said, slamming her bony hand on the table.

 

“Por favor, cálmate, señorita,” the case worker said, putting her hands in front of her face as if she were bracing herself for a hit.

 

Imelda coldly eyed the computer on the woman’s desk. “Our family always — ALWAYS — leaves our photo on the ofrenda!” she shouted, gesturing to herself, then to her husband. Then, quickly, she took off her shoe. “That _devil box_ tells you nothing but lies!”

 

As she was about to smack the computer with her shoe, Héctor grabbed her by the shoulders, quickly massaging them. “Mi amor, please – relax. Don’t stress yourself out.”

 

Imelda looked at her husband. “But Héctor, this _woman_ and her _devil box_ —”

 

“Shhh,” Héctor shushed her, continuing to massage her shoulders. “We’ll find a way to work this out. But beating things with your shoe isn’t gonna fix the problem.”

 

Imelda was about to object, until he hit a sweet spot. She then softened up a bit as she eased into his touch. “Fine…” she murmured, before taking a deep breath in as her body shuddered in pleasure. ‘ _Curse you, Héctor, and your way with your fingers_ ,’ she thought.

 

“Um, Mamá Imelda? Papá Héctor?” the couple heard a familiar voice pipe in.

 

They both turned, only to see their son-in-law along with the rest of their relatives.

 

“Oh, mi familia!” Imelda said, wriggling out of Héctor’s grasp, rushing over to her family. “We tried to sort things out, but they’re still not letting us cross the bridge. Tell this woman and her devil box that our photo is on the ofrenda, and that it wasn’t taken off!”

 

“Well, we never made it to the ofrenda,” Julio admitted.

 

“You didn’t make it? What happened?” Héctor asked his son-in-law.

 

“We kind of ran into… um…” Julio and the rest of the family stepped aside, allowing Héctor and Imelda’s eyes to fall on Miguel.

 

Miguel noticed the similarities between the skeletons and his great-great grandparents’ photo. It then clicked in his mind. These two _were_ his great-great grandparents.

 

“Miguel?” Imelda and Héctor said in unison.

 

“Mamá Imelda and Papá Héctor…” Miguel waved nervously.

 

Imelda’s eyes narrowed once more as she placed her hands on her hips. “What is going on?”

 

Héctor’s eyes lit up as he scooped his grandson up in his arms. “Oh, Miguel! It is so good to see you, mijo!” he cried out, hugging the boy.

 

“It’s great to see you, too, Papá Héctor,” Miguel said, smiling a little.

 

Héctor put the boy down and ruffled his hair. “And look at you, you’re getting big already! How old are you?”

 

“Twelve,” the boy answered simply.

 

“Twelve?!” Héctor had a goofy smile on his face. “Aye, aye, aye – you need to stop growing so fast or else I’ll end up missing your sixteenth birthday!”

 

“ _Ahem_ ,” Imelda cleared her throat. When the two diverted their attention to her, she continued, “I’ve already asked this question once, and I won’t repeat myself again after this: _what is going on?_ Why is Miguel here, when he’s not even dead?”

 

“Perhaps, I can shed a bit of light on the situation,” a clerk said, peeking his head in the doorway.

 

The family looked at each other, then at the clerk.

 

* * *

 

“Well, you’re cursed,” the clerk said bluntly.

 

Everyone gasped.

 

“What?!” Miguel cried out, a little scared.

 

The clerk searched through a stack of papers. “Dia de los Muertos is a night to _give_ to the dead. And you took your great-great grandfather’s guitar – you _stole_ it!”

 

“No, I didn’t – I was just borrowing it for a moment!” Miguel protested.

 

“You took my guitar…?” Héctor looked at Miguel. He couldn’t believe this. Only minutes of knowing this kid, and just now, he’d found out that the child took his guitar – the one his wife had gotten him for their first wedding anniversary?

 

“It was just so I could play in a talent show!” Miguel insisted.

 

“Talent show?” Imelda raised an eyebrow.

 

Suddenly, the clerk sneezed. Everyone turned their attention towards the clerk, who was now pushing a xolo off of his desk.

 

“Who let that dog in here? And who does he belong to?” the clerk asked, before sneezing again.

 

“That’s just Dante – he doesn’t have an owner,” Miguel answered, pulling Dante away from the clerk.

 

“Is he an alebrije?” Victoria asked, tilting her head a little. “Some take on different forms, after all.”

 

“He looks like a plain old dog to me,” Oscar said, honesty in his tone.

 

“Or a sausage someone dropped in a barbershop,” Felipe snickered.

 

“Whatever he is, I’m—” the clerk sneezed once more “—terribly allergic.”

 

“But Dante doesn’t have any hair,” Miguel pointed out.

 

“And I don’t have a nose, yet here we are,” the clerk replied bluntly.

 

“Okay but this doesn’t explain why we couldn’t cross over,” Imelda remarked, gesturing to her and her husband.

 

Miguel slowly pulled out a photo and unfolded it.

 

Héctor’s eyes widened. “Wait – why do you have our photo?” he asked his great-great grandson.

 

“I accidentally dropped the frame, and the glass broke, so I took the picture and put it in my pocket,” Miguel explained.

 

Fire was now in Imelda’s eyes as she glanced at the photo, before turning to the clerk. “How do we send him back?” she asked, in an eerily calm voice.

 

“Well, uh, since it’s a family matter…” The clerk flipped through a few pages. “The way to undo the curse is to give your blessing to the kid.”

 

Miguel then had an idea. “Papá Héctor, can you give me your blessing to play music?” he asked, looking into his great-great grandfather’s eyes. “You’ve been like, a _huge_ inspiration for me and I was thinking of…maybe becoming a musician one day, because of you.”

 

Héctor stared at the boy for a few minutes, registering what he’d just asked him. The fact that he had inspired this child warmed his heart, yet…he still was wary of musicians. But then again, Miguel was only a twelve year-old – a twelve year-old with dreams of music. Héctor couldn’t blame him. After all, he’d be lying to himself if he were to say that he, too, didn’t have similar dreams at one point.

 

A small smile made its way across Héctor’s face. “Mijo, of co—”

 

Imelda immediately elbowed him. “ _Héctor!_ ” she hissed. She gave him a look that said, ‘Don’t you even think about it.’

 

Héctor looked at his wife, then at his great-great grandson. He saw a desperate look on the twelve year-old’s face, as if he just wanted to get home and follow his dream.

 

Just what kind of great-great grandparent would he be if he were to deny him of that right?

 

* * *

 

"Are you sure that there isn’t another ofrenda that has my picture on it besides the orphanage?” a young skeleton woman around twenty years of age asked an officer as they both sat by a desk. The woman held onto the strap of a backpack in one hand.

 

“I’m sorry, pequeña señorita,” the officer apologized. “But the only household that has your photo on an ofrenda is an orphanage.”

 

“Are you sure you can’t find at least one family member’s house, and take a look at their ofrenda?” the young lady asked, her voice a little hoarse, as if she were about to break down at any moment. “Please, it’s Dia de los Muertos.”

 

“Well, maybe we can work something out,” the officer said. “If you give me your surname, perhaps we can take a look at some ofrendas of people who have that family name.”

 

The lady looked down at the ground, frowning. “I’ve never been attached to a family name. The people who ran that orphanage said that whoever left me on the doorstep never wrote down my last name. Just my first name, Sofia…”

 

“Well then, I’m sorry, Sofia, but there’s nothing I can do,” the officer replied. “You can either cross the bridge and pay a visit to the orphanage, or stay on this side.”

 

Sofia sighed as she got up from her seat. She then dug into her backpack and pulled out an old newspaper, glancing at a photo in the top headline. As she left the office, she traced her fingers over a man’s face in the photo.

 

“Why couldn’t I have at least gotten the chance to see you again?” Sofia asked quietly. “I never got to express my gratitude…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, the family's together now, and an OC has finally made an appearance (albeit, really small). Also, a bit of a cliffhanger with the 'blessings' bit -- horray.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry to update so late, but I've been caught up with the holiday spirit. And other works.

"Miguel, mijo," Héctor began, "even if I've had –  _problems_ , with musicians in the past… I'm glad to have inspired you, in a way. I believe that every person, no matter what age, should follow their heart and pursue their dreams." He smiled as the living boy's face lit up. "So, you have my blessing."

 

The rest of the family's jaws nearly dropped to the floor as he said those last four words, while Miguel jumped up in the air in excitement.

 

Imelda looked at her husband, her expression a mixture of shock and displeasure. 

 

“Alright then, that settles it – only one thing left to do, and your kid will be back home in no time,” the clerk said, getting up from his seat as he scanned the floor, as if he were searching for an object. He stopped at Rostia’s dress, looking up at her. “Perdón, señora.”

 

Rosita tittered as the clerk plucked a marigold petal from her dress.

 

The clerk handed the petal to Héctor. “Now, you look at the living and say his name.”

 

“Miguel,” Héctor said as he turned to his grandson, smiling as he held the petal.

 

“Nailed it. Now say: I give you my blessing.”

 

“I give you my—” Just as Héctor was about to finish his sentence, he was interrupted as his wife grabbed him by the shoulder.

 

“What are you doing?” Imelda hissed into—at least, where his ear _would be_ if he wasn’t a skeleton.

 

“I’m giving our chamaco my blessing,” Héctor replied with a simple tone.

 

“To become a _musician?_ ” Disgust was evident in the woman’s tone as she uttered the last word. “Have you gone loco?”

 

“Only you make me un poco loco, mi amor.”

 

“I’m being serious, Héctor. I’ve set up this rule for generations and I will _not_ stand by and let our great-great grandson pursue a career that only brought you misery.”

 

“You know that I can hear you, right?” Miguel chimed in.

 

“This is a talk between grownups,” Imelda said as she glanced at the boy, before looking back at Héctor. She whispered to her husband, “If you think I am going to let him go down that path, then you are _wrong_.”

 

“Imelda, he’s just a _child_ ,” Héctor whispered back. “He deserves to live his dream—”

 

“I refuse to let history repeat itself!” Imelda exclaimed, stomping one foot.

 

Miguel let out a grunt of frustration, causing his great-great grandparents turn to him. “Why can’t you let me live my life?” His focus was on his great-great grandmother as he asked this. “You’ve already had yours!”

 

“Miguel,” Imelda started, “don’t make this hard—”

 

“ _You’re the one who’s making it hard!_ ” Miguel yelled.

 

Everyone in the room stared at him, shocked at what he’d said. Meanwhile, the boy was breathing in and out, as if he were trying to stop himself from breaking down at any moment.

 

“Mijo…” Imelda trailed off.

 

However, Miguel wasn’t going to listen to another word. As soon as he’d taken a couple of deep breaths, he bolted out of the room, with Dante following after him.

 

“ _Miguel!_ ” Héctor yelled as his grandson left. He looked back at his wife and family for a moment. Silently, he whispered, “Lo siento, mi familia.” He then ran out of the room, running after Miguel.

 

“Héctor—!” Just as Imelda was about to follow her husband, she felt someone place a hand on her shoulder. She turned around and saw that it was one of the twins, Oscar.

 

“Let them go,” he said in a calm tone, though his limbs were shaking a little. Who could blame him though? He was the younger brother of a woman who was known in life (and death) not only for her skillful shoemaking, but also her temper. “Miguel is going through some things, and he’ll need someone who can understand him for a while.”

 

“But hermanito—” Imelda tried to object, but Felipe cut her off.

 

“—he’s right. We can look for them later.”

 

“What about sunrise, though?” Victoria cut in. “If we don’t have them back here by sunrise, Miguel might not be able to get back home…”

 

“The night has only just begun, mi sobrina,” Oscar stated simply. “We should give them an hour to get all composed, before we search for them. Besides, it's not like they'll run off. Héctor doesn't seem like the guy who's looking for a death wish.”

 

Imelda stared at her younger brother for a while, until she let out a sigh. “Fine.”

 

* * *

 

 

“Miguel! Mijo, dónde estás?!” Héctor yelled out, as he looked around for his great-great grandson. Just as he stopped by a phone booth, he heard sniffling noises. He quickly peered through the window, and saw a familiar figure curled up in the corner of the booth. A xolo at his feet, whimpering softly.

 

Héctor’s expression changed into a sympathetic one. He opened the door to the booth, entering it, before shutting it behind him. He knelt down across from the boy, and whispered, “There you are, mijo… I was worried about you.”

 

Miguel sniffed as he wiped a tear from his eye. “Lo– lo siento, Papá Héctor—”

 

The skeleton put a hand up, signaling for the boy to stop. “No, don’t apologize – there is nothing to apologize for, mijo.”

 

“But I—”

 

“ _No_. Listen, I understand why you ran off. Your Mamá Imelda is…well, kind of stubborn at times – but she doesn’t do it to be overbearing. She’s only trying her best to look out for you.”

 

“I just want to live life the way I want to… I only wanted to prove myself to my living family, show them that I’m worthy of their blessing—but I can’t even get a blessing from my dead relatives.” The boy let out a sigh. “I’m a failure.”

 

“ _Chamaco_.” Héctor placed his hands on the boy’s shoulders, as Dante moved aside. “Don’t talk like that. I’m sure you can play well.” There was a pause for a moment. “…in fact, why don’t you play for me – show me what you’ve got?”

 

“But…where’s your guitar?” Miguel asked. “I didn’t have it with me when I came here.”

 

“It’s at…home.” Héctor’s tone was blunt as he uttered the last word. “…you know what, how about I take you to a place where you can get a guitar?”

 

“Really?” Miguel’s eyes were now filled with excitement. He’d finally get to play music, for someone who actually _wanted_ to listen to him – and it was someone who was _family_.

 

“Yes!” Héctor nodded. He then got up, gesturing for the child to follow him.

 

But as they left the phone booth, with Dante trailing behind them, Miguel looked up and saw the rest of the family conversing with an officer. His eyes widened as he realized that they’d be discovered.

 

“Miguel, what’s the matt—” Héctor stopped as his gaze shifted to what Miguel had been glancing at. He quickly grabbed the boy’s hand, whispering a single word to him, “Run.”

 

And soon, they ran off.

 

* * *

 

 

“So if you see a human boy and a xolo with a skeleton that seems to be around thirty-two, could you let them pass by for at least an hour or so?” Imelda asked the officer. “It’s a family matter. We’ll send him back as soon as the hour is over.”

 

“Of course, señora.” The officer nodded, before pulling out a walkie-talkie as he began to speak to his fellow officers.

 

Imelda turned back to her family, but just as she had done so, she could’ve sworn that she saw two familiar figures run away – even for just a single moment, out of the corner of her eye; she knew that she saw _something_.

 

She looked down, and there she saw her husband running away, with their great-great grandson in tow along with a xolo.

 

One thing was certain: if Imelda had any blood left, it would be boiling now. For now, she felt enraged – yet at the same time, now determined to find her great-great grandson. 

 

He wouldn't end up as broken as Héctor had been, not when the Final Death had yet to claim her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the next chapter, we'll probably see familiar faces (and maybe go into more detail on trauma because *glances at the previous fic*).


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pretty similar to the Shantytown scene in the film, except a little bit is reveal on Hector's time in the Land of the Dead (not a whole lot 'cause I don't wanna spoil the whole divergence, but... y'know ;) ).

“So, wait…they call this place ‘Shantytown’?” Miguel asked as his great-great grandfather lead him around the small little town. “Why?”

 

“That…is actually a good question,” Héctor admitted, ignoring the fact that Dante was rubbing up against his leg, as a domesticated cat would do for their master. “I don’t know why they call it ‘Shantytown’, they just. Do.”

 

“Cousin Héctor!!” a group of ratty skeletons called out.

 

His face lit up as he recognized those voices, who belonged to none other than his second – sort of – family. “Ah, these guys!” He beckoned for Miguel to follow him as he walked up to the group.

 

“Héctor!” a ratty man cried out.

 

“Hey, Tío! Que onda!” He waved back at the ratty man.

 

“These people are a part of the family?” Miguel asked, a little surprised.

 

Héctor turned to the boy, and shrugged. “Eh, in a way they were a part of my family, when I first came to the Land of the Dead…”

 

“What do you mean?” Miguel tilted his head, curious and wanting to know more.

 

“Prior to your Mamá Imelda’s arrival here, I was a little lonely,” Héctor explained. “But that’s expected when you’re separated from your wife and thirteen year-old daughter at the age of thirty-two…still, I had tried so many times to cross the bridge outside of Dia de los Muertos, only for those attempts to backfire – hell, I’d even dressed up as Frida Kahlo, and that still didn’t work! So, I decided to search for companionship here, to avoid the feeling of loneliness. I ended up here, at Shantytown, meeting all of these people… I guess you could say they were my second, temporary family. Even if I was also dead, I was at least the only one who remembered them in a positive manner, for no one bothered to put their photos on an ofrenda. You know what they say, mijo: loneliness seeks company.”

 

“But then you reunited with Mamá Imelda,” Miguel guessed.

 

Héctor nodded, smiling a little. “But that is a story for another time. Right now, we’re getting a guitar for you.”

  
They continued down their path, approaching three old ladies playing cards around a crate. One of the ladies looked up.

 

“Héctor!”

 

“Tía Chelo! He-hey!” He passed down a bottle to the women.

 

“Muchas gracias!” they all said in unison.

 

“Hey – save some for me!” Héctor joked. “…say, is Chicharrón around?”

 

“In the bungalow,” Chelo replied. “Dunno if he’s in the mood for visitors…”

 

“Come on, who doesn’t like a visit from Cousin Héctor?”

 

* * *

 

“I don’t want to see your stupid face, Héctor,” Chicharrón grumbled as he turned to the other side of the hammock, just as the young man had walked into the tent, with a boy and a dog trailing behind. How dare this man walk in, when after what he’d done with his femur?

 

“C’mon, it’s Dia de los Muertos! I got you a little offering!” Héctor insisted.

 

“Get out of here…” Chicharrón muttered.

 

Héctor took a few steps closer to the hammock. “I would, Cheech, but the thing is… I want to know if you’d mind if me and my great-great grandson, Miguel, borrowed your guitar.”

 

“My guitar?!” Then, another thing clicked in Chicharrón’s mind. He sat up, looking over at Miguel, before looking back at Héctor. “…wait, that’s your great-great grandson?”

 

“Yes.” The younger man nodded.

 

“…I’m sorry to see that he passed on so soon,” Chicharrón remarked, sounding sympathetic. Child death wasn’t uncommon, but that certainly didn’t mean it wasn’t shocking or disheartening to see a skeleton under the age of eighteen walking around. However, before the elderly man could say another word, his body shook as a golden flicker flashed through his bones. He let out a gasp as he collapsed in the hammock.

 

Héctor rushed forward. “Are – are you okay, amigo?”

 

“I’m fading, Héctor,” Chicharrón said quietly. “I…I feel it.” He looked over at his guitar. “Let’s be realistic: I couldn’t even play that thing again even if I wanted to.” He looked back at the younger man, pausing for a moment. “You play me something. You want it? You earn it.”

 

“But, Cheech…” Héctor trailed off, before sighing as he reached over his friend and grabbed the instrument. “Only for you, amigo. Do you have a specific request in mind?” he asked, as he began tuning the guitar.

 

“You know my favorite, Héctor,” Chicharrón replied.

 

Héctor began humming a soft, lovely tune. As Chicharrón smiled, Miguel’s eyes widened upon hearing his grandfather’s voice and his exact skill – most of the music he’d heard from him were from the old tapes, he never really got to hear him outside of the slightly muffled audio from the 1800’s.

 

> “ _Well, everyone knows Juanita_
> 
> _Her eyes each a different color,_
> 
> _Her teeth stick out and her chin goes in,_
> 
> _And her_ …”

 

Héctor looked at Miguel. “… _knuckles, they drag on the floor_ ,” he sang quickly, knowing all too well that a twelve year-old shouldn’t be exposed to such graphic material, much less in song form.

 

Chicharrón’s eyes narrowed. “Those aren’t the words!”

 

“I have a great-great grandson right here, who is a child,” Héctor whispered. He then continued to sing, “ _Her hair is like a briar, she stands in a bow-legged stance. And if I weren’t so ugly, she’d possibly give me a chance!_ ” he finished with a soft flourish.

 

Chicharrón felt as though his metaphorical insides had been tickled with joy. In this moment, he felt brighter than ever. “Brings back memories,” he chuckled. “Gracias…”

 

His eyes closed for the last time, finally at peace. If his eyes could get wet again, Héctor’s face would be soaked in his tears.

 

Suddenly, Chicharrón began to glow once more. A beautiful light, it was. But sadly, what came out of it wasn’t as beautiful. Shortly after the glow had appeared, Chicharrón dissolved into dust.

 

Miguel looked on, stunned and concerned, while Héctor picked up a shot glass and lifted it in honor, before drinking it. The boy watched as the man placed the empty glass down next to Chicharrón’s glass, which was still full.

 

“What…what happened?” Miguel asked.

 

“He’s been forgotten,” Héctor muttered simply. He paused for a moment, before he began to explain, “You see, after photographs were invented, the gods came to an agreement. If a departed soul’s photo had been put on an ofrenda, with the assurance that at least one person had remembered them in life, then they would stay in the Land of the Dead. But if their photo was never put up and they were forgotten, then they’d eventually disappear from this world, too. Everyone here calls it the ‘Final Death.’”

 

“…where’d he go?”

 

“No one knows.”

 

Miguel then had an idea. “But since I’ve met him, when I go back, I could remember him!”

 

“No, it doesn’t work like that, mijo.” Héctor shook his head. “Their memories…they have to be passed down by those who knew them in life—in the stories they speak of them. But there’s no one left alive to pass down Cheech’s stories…”

 

Miguel looked down for a moment. “…so, you were never forgotten, because Mamá Imelda and Mamá Coco remembered you, and passed down your story.”

 

“Now you’ve got it.” Héctor put a hand on the boy’s back, suddenly a little cheerful. “But even then, it happens to everyone eventually…at least, even when the Final Death claims me, I know my family here will follow me not too long after.” He then handed Miguel the guitar.

 

“C’mon, let’s go find a place for you to perform.” He threw open the curtain, exiting.

 

Miguel looked back at the glasses, before turning and following after his great-great grandfather.

 

Dante’s ears went up, before he sniffed the air for a moment. He let out a whimper, before he quickly ran after Miguel and Héctor.

 

Something felt a little odd, and the xolo didn’t like it.

 

* * *

 

 

“So, let me get this straight…if I help you out on your little ‘revenge’ on this ‘Héctor’ guy, you’ll find a way to bring me my ungrateful, harlot of a daughter?” a figure, who’s face was unable to be seen – as he sat in a far corner, covered by shadows – asked in a gruff tone, sounding as though he were at least eighty-five years of age.

 

A man no older than fourty, wearing a dusty brown mariachi outfit with matching pants, grinned as he replied, “Trust me, señor… I am a man of my word. You help me seize my moment, and I’ll help you reunite with your daughter.”

 

“I must admit,” the eighty-five year old began as he stepped out of the shadows, revealing his face. Around his eyes were cracks. He was an inch taller than Ernesto, with only a few grey hairs – most of his hair seemingly having fallen off due to age. Or perhaps, something else. “This is a little surprising. I never thought anyone would be willing to help out an old man such as myself with business like this.”

 

“So, is that a yes or a no?”

 

“Now, why the hell would I pass up on the opportunity to get payback at that little _harlot_ for running off, and a bit of payback at that idiot she calls a husband as well? De la Cruz, you have yourself a deal.”

 

“Excelente,” Ernesto chuckled. “Tonight, they won’t even know what hit them…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 2/1/18 edit: i've decided that i can't continue this fic anymore. i've lost motivation, and for the past few weeks i've felt pressured to continue sometimes. i did have a fair idea how things would go down and end so if you're genuinely curious, you can ask but just let it be known that this fic won't be updated any further. i MIGHT do a one-shot w/ frida, diego, miguel and hector for this fic, and i might write some hector/imelda reunion fluff for this au but otherwise - my muse is gone. i'm just so tired of trying, only to come up with nothing - and the pressure's too much.
> 
> i'm sorry.  
> \- yours truly, the author


End file.
